The junior reporter turned out a triumph of the new journalism.  “This is a book which may be a genuine source of pride to every native of the ancient province of Galloway,” he wrote.  “Galloway has been celebrated for black cattle and for wool, as also for a certain bucolic belatedness of temperament, but Galloway has never hitherto produced a poetess.  One has arisen in the person of Miss Janet Bal—­ something or other.  We have not an interpreter at hand, and so cannot wrestle with the intricacies of the authoress’s name, which appears to be some Galwegian form of Erse or Choctaw.  Miss Bal—­and so forth—­has a true fount of pathos and humour.  In what touching language she chronicles the death of two young lambs which fell down into one of the puddles they call rivers down there, and were either drowned or choked with the dirt: 

     “’They were two bonny, bonny lambs,
     That played upon the daisied lea,
     And loudly mourned their woolly dams
     Above the drumly flowing Dee.’

“How touchingly simple!” continued the junior reporter, buckling up his sleeves to enjoy himself, and feeling himself born to be a “Saturday Reviewer.”

“Mark the local colour, the wool and the dirty water of the Dee—­without doubt a name applied to one of their bigger ditches down there.  Mark also the over-fervency of the touching line,

     “‘And loudly mourned their woolly dams,’

“Which, but for the sex of the writer and her evident genius, might be taken for an expression of a strength hardly permissible even in the metropolis.”

The junior reporter filled his two columns and enjoyed himself in the doing of it.  He concluded with the words:  “The authoress will make a great success.  If she will come to the capital, where genius is always appreciated, she will, without doubt, make her fortune.  Nay, if Miss Bal—­but again we cannot proceed for the want of an interpreter—­if Miss B., we say, will only accept a position at Cleary’s Waxworks and give readings from her poetry, or exhibit herself in the act of pronouncing her own name, she will be a greater draw in this city than Punch and Judy, or even the latest American advertising evangelist, who preaches standing on his head.”

The junior reporter ceased here from very admiration at his own cleverness in so exactly hitting the tone of the masters of his craft, and handed his manuscript in to the editor.

It was the gloaming of a long June day when Rob Affleck, the woodman over at Barbrax, having been at New Dalry with a cart of wood, left his horse on the roadside and ran over through Gavin’s old short cut, now seldom used, to Janet’s cottage with a paper in a yellow wrapper.

“Leave it on the step, and thank you kindly, Rob,” said a weak voice within; and Rob, anxious about his horse and his bed, did so without another word.  In a moment or two Janet crawled to the door, listened to make sure that Rob was really gone, opened the door, and protruded a hand wasted to the hard, flat bone—­an arm that ought for years to have been full of flesh and noble curves.